The Redemption of Pamela Isley
by The Kat Valentine
Summary: She had never seen her before, not in the loud, bickering trenches of Arkham. How droll, how dull, how naive.  They had not met, but the name crossed her lips, and Ivy rolled her green eyes. How -Harley-.


I don't own anything, and if it's at all possible I might be getting back to writing fanfiction again. What better way to do that than with my favorite pairing? Note: Not Dark Side of the Moon-verse, obviously, since this is certainly Dr. Harleen Quinzell. Without further ado, on with it.

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Arkham was never dull.

That was the furthest Pamela 'Poison Ivy' Isley could take it before the statement became untrue. Arkham Asylum was a lot of adjectives. It was _wretched _and it was _tedious_ and it was _overwrought with stupid cretins,_ but it was never _dull._

If the Joker wasn't planning to get out, it was Dr. Crane. And she'd had it at her wit's end where the so-called Scarecrow was concerned, and listening to his nonsense about toxins and chemicals that he, sometimes, was very wrong about. She knew, after all, and despite being a sufficiently psychotic, eco-terroristic criminal, she had once been a world-class botanist and scientist with a honed expertise in chemical knowledge. But he _blah blah blahed_ his egotistical thoughts away, overcompensated for his puny stature with big, scary words and then found himself tossed in the back of his own cell.

_Just like every other day._

Killer Croc had the pleasure of his own personal environment. Julian Calendar, the raving lunatic, was virtually harmless to most (though, just to be safe, a few extra rounds were made by order of the Batman on designated holidays marked carefully on a piece of paper). Really, though the pot was constantly simmering, it seemed, the contents never came to a boil.

She was the unwitting observer, the seer of all things. Ivy kept to herself and her cell, prettily survived by a small, unreachable window that let in a small, unreachable few strips of sunlight to bathe her hell, and she tended more toward the docile than the troublesome. It was just easier, and she was allowed books—though she _abhorred _them. Dead trees, limp, flattened pieces of paper… _everything was just so dead._

_She_ had not been.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about her that sparked Ivy's interest. Dyed-blonde hair meticulously made to hide natural roots that were certainly _much_ darker; powder blue eyes, locks tugged back into a mock-professional bun to exude a lightly stupid aura of sophisticate. The redhead had been around the block and back a hundred times where doctors were concerned, and she could read every one just as well as she could assess a rhododendron from a daffodil.

"Harleen Quinzel?"

_What a cheap name._

"Call me Harley, everyone does."

Dr. Gretchen Whistler had everyone's number, however, and that included Ivy's. It was beneath her reign that the green-skinned seductress had been assigned therapy with _only_ females under strict conditions: hands cuffed, chair bolted, everything restrained whilst the doctor was forced to leave at least five feet of space between themselves and the patient. Ivy scowled. She suffered _special_ treatment.

"I'm surprised you want to intern here at Arkham."

_Of course she does. To everyone on the outside with a two-bit psychology degree on meatbags, Arkham is practically Beverly Hills, home to the most fabulous and deranged. Don't be naïve, Gretchen._

"I've always had a thing for extreme personalities. You can't deny there's an element of glamour to these super criminals."

_It seems there's more naïveté in this conversation than I thought._

"I'll warn you right now, these are hardcore psychotics. Most would rather kill you than speak to you."

_I don't know about that. She's too skinny for adequate mulch._

"I'm sure I'll be fine, doctor."

_I give her a week, at the very most. If I don't run her out of here on my own._

"They'll eat you for breakfast. I mean it, one or two of them will enjoy it, too. Be careful."

Dr. Quinzel did something, then, that caught Ivy's attention a touch more profoundly than her simple little name had. She did something Ivy had rarely, if ever, seen doctors who roamed the halls of Arkham do, whether they be seniors or newbies.

Harleen _smiled._


End file.
